


And I am Time itself, I slow to let you play

by PersonyPepper



Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Poor Kiddo, Prompt: Potions, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but it's important in this one xD, he always is in my fics, horrible i tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25035865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Geralt wakes with a gasp and a thought. A thought he’d rather not have. Jaskier sleeps across from him, cuddled with his lute, perfectly visible in the dull morning light.Fuck, he’s going to die.One day, Jaskier’s smooth face will grow crows feet and wrinkles, his joints will start aching and Geralt knows he’d slow for his bard, let him ride Roach, carry him up stairs of traverns. Jaskier’s eyes would still be filled with joy, shine with love at every flower and every child, that his fist would clench at every bastard talking ill of his witcher, no matter if his hand shakes too much to even flit over his lute. Jaskier’d stop traveling, move into the coast, and eventually…Oh fuck no.Or, Geralt realizes Jaskier’s going to die and sets out on trying to find an immortality potion. Jaskier thinks Geralt’s trying to shut him up. Cue: Miscommunication.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084442
Comments: 45
Kudos: 771





	And I am Time itself, I slow to let you play

Geralt wakes with a gasp and a thought. A thought he’d rather not have. Jaskier sleeps across from him, cuddled with his lute, perfectly visible in the dull morning light.

Fuck, he’s going to die.

One day, Jaskier’s smooth face will grow crows feet and wrinkles, his joints will start aching and Geralt knows he’d slow for his bard, let him ride Roach, carry him up stairs of traverns. Jaskier’s eyes would still be filled with joy, shine with love at every flower and every child, that his fist would clench at every bastard talking ill of his witcher, no matter if his hand shakes too much to even flit over his lute. Jaskier’d stop traveling, move into the coast, and eventually… 

Oh fuck _no_.

Geralt packs his bedroll with newfound urgency. Each second he wastes is another second Jaskier ages, another second lost to fucking Melitele, stealing back the life she so graciously gave.

“Bard,” he calls out, hoping Jaskier doesn’t hear the barely contained panic in his voice.

“Jaskier—'' Even though he can clearly hear his friend’s steady heart and his half-snores, Geralt can’t help the way his heart picks up speed in his chest. He can’t be dead, dead asleep, maybe, but the sharp worry he feels won’t go away and— the bard wakes with a groan. Geralt sighs in relief, only for Jaskier to huff in return.

“I’m up, for Melitele’s sake, don’t let a man fucking sleep, do you, Witchers? I’ve to take leak,” he begins walking off into the forest to find himself a nice tree, “and then we can be off—” Fuck, how had Geralt let him go off alone all these years, especially into the woods, where beasts of all kind roamed.

Jaskier glares at Geralt as the witcher falls into step beside him. “Find a different spot, would like a piss in peace, for fuck’s sake.” The witcher can’t help the slight smile that works its way onto his face. Ever so grumpy in the mornings, his bard.

“Fuck off, Geralt!” 

Geralt regards him with a look, using his eyes to convey that he’s only looking out for his friend, protecting his fragile human body from all the mindless beasts that prowl and the— the harsh winds, even and possibly the— . 

Jaskier glares and follows it up with a grunt. Apparently, he’s only gotten that Geralt wasn’t going to go away and had decided to put up with it.

He tugs his cock out of his smalls and—

“Hey! At least pretend like you’re not looking, some courtesy, Master Witcher…” he trails off, his eyes twinkling as he looks at him, “unless you want to, in which case, all you had to do was ask,” Jaskier winks at him, a cheery smile on his face. Geralt looks away, but not before muttering _could’ve said the same thing for you rubbing chamomile on my buttocks, bard,_ leaving Jaskier to splutter in indignation.

~~

Geralt wonders what life would be without Jaskier by his side. Certainly, he’d live on, taking contracts, collecting coin. Roach huffs from next to him, as if encouraging his self-reflection and Geralt nods, sharing a look with her. The bard strums his lute, a new composition, it seems; the song doesn’t have much rhyme or rhythm and Jaskier hums mindlessly along with it, simply testing out the tune.

He can’t imagine it, though, living a life without Jaskier, no endless chatter to calm him, no unafraid hands to drag him out of swamps. To live life without Jaskier wouldn’t be living, he realizes with a start, it would only be… surviving— at best. And the idea of getting another travel partner— his face twists into a scowl at just the thought of it.

“Geralt?” 

The witcher glances at his bard before turning his attention back to the dirt path in front of them.

“What?” He grunts out, annoyed with himself for getting so godsdamned attached to a human of all creatures. Somehow, humans are more difficult to grant immortality to than horses and damn Jaskier for being so difficult. 

“I was asking if you know the story behind the Echinops from last week—”

“No.”

“Oh. Suppose I should’ve asked the townsfolk, probably would’ve if you hadn’t abandoned me at camp a solid day away by walk, really lovely you did that, Geral.”

The witcher’s shoulders hunch, a low growl of guilt slipping past his lips. 

Jaskier glances at him, his face unreadable before he turns back to his lute.

~~

The Cintran market is bustling, Jaskier flipping his new-found dagger in his hand, testing its weight.

Geralt takes it from him, barely holding it before handing it back. “It’s shit, try this one,” he plucks a dagger, a carefully constructed kris knife, the blade a marble of grey and black metal, the handle leather, engraved with yellow flowers and blue stones intertwined together by chains of green-threaded leaves. Jaskier runs a careful finger up the blade, the witcher’s shoulders tense as he presses his finger to the tip, absentmindedly pressing his pricked finger to his mouth as he examines the handle.

“Geralt, oh you are very much a cruel man.” Jaskier sets the knife back down, though he looks utterly besotted with it. “Come on, let’s go get you herbs and find ourselves an inn—” 

“Jaskier,” He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t fucking buy, he’s well in need of one. “Buy it.” 

The bard cracks a grin, a mask to hide his disappointment so effortlessly executed that it makes something Geralt’s chest ache. “With what money, dear witcher of mine?” He heads toward a stall thrumming with chaos, lined with herbs and potions. Geralt’s been eyeing it since they’d gotten there, but Jaskier had insisted on looking at the “pretty knives” first. And now that they’d looked, he hadn’t even bought it.

Geralt hands over two of his own silver coins to the woman behind the stall, who takes it from his hand wordlessly and wraps it up nicely for him, a ribbon and all. “It’ll make for an excellent present, Master Witcher, now go on before you lose your bard to the crowd.” He grumbles a thank you before following after Jaskier. 

“Witcher,” the sorceress behind the stall regards him cooly, her magic an aura of green-gold around her that he knows only he can see. “Your bard’s quite a bargainer—” Jaskier smiles proudly up at him, tucking last of the herbs Geralt needs for his potions into his bag, “But there’s something I can do for you, isn’t there?” The witcher hums, glancing at Jaskier before looking back up at her.

“Perhaps we can talk somewhere more… private. I'll pay you.” He can feel Jaskier’s discomfort by him, unhappiness rolling off his bard in waves when he realizes they’re talking about him.

“I’ll be… I’ll be at the inn, then! You two have your— fun,” he finishes lamely before turning and walking away into the crowd.

“Jaskier, wait—” he grabs the bard by the forearm, quickly pulling him back. “Take this,” he holds out the package, knife contained in it, “and be careful.”

A boyish smile lights up Jaskier's face, his eyes shining as much as the blue stones would glint under moonlight, no doubt. "Didn't know you cared enough to buy it, much less make it wrap it up so prettily, Geralt."

The witcher grunts. "Wasn't a choice. Be safe."

Jaskier hums his assent, glee still bright on his face as carefully tucking the package into his bag before heading for the inn. Geralt sighs a harsh breath and turns back to the sorceress. He wonders why she works the stall rather than serving some nobility, but he really doesn't care. 

Each second wasted is another second Jaskier loses. 

~~ 

He follows her to her home, presumably, and takes a seat at her loveseat, the sorceress settling in opposite to him. "I do have to return, soon, Witcher, and this will most definitely cost you a pretty penny. Tell me what's so worth it all, it’s a waste of my chaos to dive into your head."

"I need an immortality potion." Hope is a beast that runs rampant in his chest, jolting his heart into beating just barely quicker.

She stares at him for a moment before letting mirth twist her face. "Immortality potion? A thing of folklore and old wive's tales—" 

"Each tale came from a rumor, each rumor comes from a truth." Her brow raises in amusement. 

"Immortality is a thing to be reckoned with, Witcher, you know full well the whims of Destiny, and how upset She grows when you refuse her," Geralt holds back a snarl. Cintra has fought Nilfgaard and claimed victory, his child surprise safe in her home, but the cruelties of Destiny’s wrath haunt him daily; he's abandoned his child of surprise, and in turn, all those by his side leave him—Yennefer on the mountaintop, and nearly Jaskier the same day. He's ever-grateful that the bard had indeed waited for him, though Geralt’s anger had blinded him so greatly.

But the fact that Jaskier hadn't left him then only prolonged Destiny's curse, forcing Geralt to suffer with the thought of losing his bard for years as he grows old before he eventually perishes.

"I'm aware,” he says. “Do you have the potion." It’s not a question.

She smiles, a small curve of her lips.

~~ 

The pink liquid sloshes in the vial, the thing barley longer than his longest finger and barely thicker than it. His footsteps are light as he works his way up the stairs, following Jaskier's chamomile scent. 

The bard looks at him from where he's posed, his blade held carefully in hand as if he's been practicing. His footing is sure, entirely unlike those of common folk, but it seems to serve him well. His grip on the blade itself is awkward, his fingers wrapped around it like a rapier rather than a common knife.

"You're holding it wrong," Geralt grunts, carefully securing it into Jaskier's bag for now. The turns to face his bard, who's straightened, looking at him with curiosity. 

"Get back into position." Jaskier looks at him for a moment longer before falling into the pose he’d held before. "You need to stop leaning forward so much." The bard straightens awkwardly, not entirely sure how— Geralt steps closer to him, one arm wrapping around the front of the bard’s chest, his back pressed against the witcher’s front. He hears the bard’s breath hitch as Geralt slowly bends them both forward again, just barely. He steps away, regarding Jaskier’s position. “Good,” he says, before moving in front of him, “hold your position,” he commands, rearranging his grip on the knife.

Geralt steps back, admiring the muscle the bard’s chemise showcases, his legs strong as he stays still. How it’s taken him decades and a heartbreak to finally realize that he loves Jaskie, he’s not sure.

He grunts out another good before mimicking his position, facing his bard in the small room. “Come at me,” he says, watching as a small smirk works its way onto Jaskier’s face. Geralt twists as Jaskier steps closer to him, catching his wrist with ease as the bard goes to stab him. He lets Jaskier twist out of his grip and jumps as the bard’s falls to the floor, resting on his fingertips as a leg darts out to knock the witcher off balance, only for Geralt to jump over his leg and to be met with a tackle. He wraps Jaskier in his arms, locking them around him just as the bard tries to throw his weight off of him.

The bard struggles, writhing in Geralt’s grasp, their faces inches apart. Eventually, he quiets, relaxing into the witcher’s grip. Geralt doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to look away from the bright blue eyes, those pale red lips.

Pale red lips that turn grey before his eyes, wrinkles crawling onto rosy skin. Geralt lets go of Jaskier with a gasp, watching confusion and worry flicker over the bard’s young face as the witcher stands.

“Geralt?” He rummages through the bag before shoving the vial into the bard’s chest.

“Drink.”

“What? Does my breath smell, or—”

“Just fucking drink it, Jaskier!” The bard stares at him a moment longer before uncorking it and downing it without question. Geralt looks for the thrum of magic to indicate the change, cells rendering themselves to immortality, reformed to continue their cycle for all time. 

Only, all that’s changed is that his happy, playful bard now stares at him, arms crossed over his chest.

“What the fuck was that Geralt? You nearly kiss me, shove— _something_ — down my throat and now you look so fucking devestated, what’s going on?” 

It's _fine_ , Geralt tries to tell himself. There are hundreds of mages over the continent, and even more hags and witches. He only needs one of the potions to work, the one fabled to be true. 

“Go to sleep, Jaskier. We leave early tomorrow.”

Jaskier’s lips turn into a frown, his face troubled. “To where, Geralt?”

The witcher doesn’t have an answer for him. 

~~

They don’t work. Mages, witches, hags, nothing— no thrum of magic, no changes in his bard other than his growing quieter.

Geralt frets when he first realizes the bard’s dimming, taking Jaskier to every healer he can find, ignoring the bard’s “I’m not sick, Geralt,” and the sigh that always follows it. But he is sick, isn’t he? He’s a bard for fuck’s sake and he barely opens his mouth around Gerralt anymore, much less plays his lute. The potions don’t work and his bard’s come down with something and he can’t find a cure.

Sleep is scarce, rest even more so as they scour the continent, Jaskier swallowing potion after potion, quieter after each one. He half-thinks that it might be their magic putting a damper and the bard’s sounds, only it makes no sense— he’s still quite the flirt, ever the peacock— and it only serves to worry Geralt more.

They settle under the stars for the night, Jaskier leant against Roach, staring into their dying fire.

The hope that had run rampant in Geralt’s chest is exhausted, prowling with a thorn through its foot. And tonight, it finally collapses.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die. _He’s going to die._

Geralt’s mind won’t stop saying it, telling him to talk to him, to touch him, to love him for every fleeting day he has left.

He sits down next to him, Roach huffing a greeting as he pets her briefly. It is so quiet in the dead of the night, far too quiet, far too _final_. 

Geralt stares at his friend, the softness of his cheeks above the gentle slope of his jaw. Rich brown hair curls behind his ear, dark in the dying light. He’s beautiful.

Geralt wants him. He’d want him if he grew wrinkles, if his hair turned gray. And if Geralt’ll have to carry him from place to place when he’s too old to even walk. He wants him when his voice will turn croaky, when his fingernails will tinge yellow and his blue eyes develop rings of red around their irises and white over their pupils. He’ll want him, even if it means kneeling next to his deathbed, a fragile hand held so very carefully in his own as they spend their last moments together, fleeting just as days past.

“Jaskier?” He turns to him, breathtaking. How he’d ever called him such horrid things atop that mountain, he doesn’t know. How he’d treated him, pushed his fragile body to its farthest limits, he’ll never know. He does know that he’d never do ill to him again, for as long as he lives. 

The bard leans against his shoulder, eyes slipping closed. “Jaskier.” He has to do this now, he has to start living now, before all he can do is survive. “Can I—” he takes a breath, his hand coming up to cup his friend’s cheek, “Can I kiss you?”

Big blue eyes blink up at him, and gentle lips press against his own. “Yes,” Jaskier whispers between their lips, settling atop Geralt in a straddle, looking down at him with such pretty eyes, “Please.”

And who is Gerralt to deny such a plea when he’s just as desperate?

~~ 

Their bodies are flush as they lay on their bedrolls, Jaskier’s head resting on Geralt’s shoulder. The bard’s chest rises and falls idly, long lashes over the skin under his eyes. Will this be how he looks when he’s dead? So utterly content, holding Geralt’s hand? So utterly peaceful?

The bard blinks up at him, a lazy smile pulling its way onto his face.

“I love you, Jaskier.” A good time as any to say it, especially when they lose time so quickly. The bard’s face pulls into a frown.

“You do?”

Geralt hums. “I do.”

And something’s changed. Jaskier pulls away from him, tugging on his smalls and his chemise, hand running his soft hair. 

“I’m sorry,” the bard whispers, staring into the embers of life left amongst the charred wood. “I can’t do this anymore. I tried to quiet myself, to dampen everything about me, and,” his voice cuts off into a choke, a sob, “I feel more dead than I would feel if I did die. And now you _love me for it?_ I can’t do this, Geralt, I’m—”

“You _what_?” The witcher props himself onto his elbows, looking up at his friend, brows furrowed in confusion. “You were quiet for _me_? Not because you were sick?”

Jaskier recoils, “Is that why you’ve been taking me to healers? Because you thought your muting-potions were making me sick? Geralt, I don’t I understand, you kept trying to silence me temporarily, and then I quieted and—” 

“I was trying to make you immortal!” He knows he probably seems ridiculous, distraught so clear on his face, so clear in his voice. “I wanted your chatter for _forever_ , not to mute you! How could you think—” 

“I’d hoped we were okay! After the mountain, I mean. And it seemed like we were, you were kinder to me and didn’t leave me behind as much and didn’t force me to walk for days on end without food or sleep and I thought we were okay!” Jaskier’s hands tug at his hair, so harsh as he curls up in on himself, “So I started talking again, and p— playing but then you star—started with these potions and I thought—” his voice comes out in stammers, the scent of salty tears in the air as his breath hitches, giving away to panic, “I thought you wanted me quiet! And then I tried and I was so tired but you didn’t stop, no matter how _good_ I tried to be, and—”

Geralt wraps him in a hug, Jasksier uncoiling just enough to rest his head on his shoulder and catch his breath, tears trickling down his face. “Melitele no, Jaskier,” he whispers, kissing the bard’s forehead. “I wanted you by me forever, I love you, and it scares me, but I fear the fact that I’ll lose you even more. I’m so sorry,” the words are so urgent as he holds his bard so carefully in his arms, “I’m so sorry I failed you.” 

The first laugh is nothing more than a hiccup caught on the tail end of a sob. But before long, Jaskier’s erupted into giggles, shaking against Geralt’s chest.

The witcher watches him, helpless to the joy the sight brings him, but confused all the same. 

“You were trying to make me immortal?” Jaskier asks, breathless as he pulls back to look up at Geralt, eyes lined with tears of mirth. 

“Well yes, I—” the witcher cocks his head, wondering if the potions have messed with Jasksier’s hearing.

“Geralt, I am immortal. I fucked a god.” Geralt can’t help but stare at him, trying to wrap his head around one, the idea of Jaskier being immortal, and two, how the hell Jaskier managed to fuck a _god_? His chest fills with happiness like lightning against the sky— so sharp and bright that it leaves him breathless, tingling with energy.

He sighs, laying back down onto the bedroll, Jaskier coming to lay atop of him, head on Geralt’s shoulder. He wraps his arm around the man’s waist, the other across his back and over his shoulder. 

“You fucked a god,” he says in quiet shock.

“You fucked a god,” it’s accompanied with a chuckle, and soon he’s huffing with silent laughs, relief pounding through his veins. “Praise Melitele; you fucked a god and now you’re immortal.” Jasksier grins down at him, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“I am, yes, you could try stabbing me to check, Gods knows I was surprised I _didn’t_ die but you should’ve seen the look on the other guy’s fa—” 

His arms tighten around his bard. “I’m never, ever letting anything happen to you,” he says, a reverent confession and a promise all in one. “Gods, fucking—” he presses more joyous kisses to Jaskier’s lips.

They spend the rest of the night wrapped in each other, talking, touching, and loving for every infinite day they’ll have together.

**Author's Note:**

> For Geralt Whump Week ( @geraltwhumpweek )! It’s a happy ending, no worries, promises <33
> 
> Comments and kudos let me know you're enjoying my work; thanks for reading and enjoy! Title’s from The Horror and the Wild by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> My tumblr's @persony-pepper, come say hi! <33 I rb witcher things and take geraskier writing prompts of all kinds.


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